


when it rains.

by neosanctuaire



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon Typical Miscommunication, Love Confessions, M/M, MAG 159 spoilers, i just want jm to be happy, i think this qualifies as fluff, not beta'd but when is my stuff ever lmao, the l-word is said, tone is melancholic but it isnt actually angst even though it feels like it could be
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-25
Updated: 2019-10-25
Packaged: 2021-01-02 19:28:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21166688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neosanctuaire/pseuds/neosanctuaire
Summary: Hovering near his ratty old couch holding the bag from the deli in hand, Martin feels a nostalgic wave of listlessness wash over him. Jon is still near the door, struggling out of his shoes despite Martin telling him he doesn’t need to take them off.“I’ll ma—”“Let me put a pot of tea on, Martin.” He stares at Jon like he’s trying to solve a riddle, mouth drawing into a small frown as he turns the man in front of him over in his brain. “I certainly owe you a cup, so just have a seat.”





	when it rains.

**Author's Note:**

> so basically jm canon

It’s the rain that makes him realize they’re actually out of the Lonely. 

There’s likely something to be said that Martin notices the rain before the intrusive, constant hum of London— car horns and the tidal push and pull of the chatter of passersby. He’s hardly been out much in… months, is it? Let alone in rush hour, with bodies jostling against him as they race back to work from their short lunch breaks. It’s all a bit too much— he feels dizzy. 

The hand in his squeezes him gently, just enough pressure to bring him back into himself as he starts to drift away. That’ll be something to work on, won’t it? All he can hope is that Jon will give him enough time to try. 

“Martin.” 

The tone of Jon’s voice is impossible to make out, if only because the sound of his name with such a distinct lilt of concern and fondness is something Martin has never heard. He had hoped Jon might be the one to speak to him that way, but he is intimately familiar with what hope breeds.

“Jon?” 

His eyes are worse, though. Despite the dense cover of clouds they gleam like polished glass and Martin can feel his gaze digging in under his skin, looking around to find dots to connect so that he can understand what he’s looking at. He doubts Jon even knows he’s doing it, but that doesn’t settle the pit of his stomach any. 

“I just…” Jon starts, and Martin watches the subtle movements of Jon’s expressions with guarded reverence; the way his brows draw together as he struggles through piecing together words in his head, the small twitch of his jaw as he bites down on whatever his first impulse was. “You’re…” Martin traces the lines of Jon’s face as they move, intent on bringing the memory of every inch of Jon with him the next time he falls out of existence. 

“Are you… hungry?” Jon asks eventually, and Martin stares at him and can’t help a bubble of  _ laughter _ — how long has it been since he laughed? “D-Don’t laugh, I’m trying to be considerate.” 

“I’m s-sorry—” Martin coughs out between laughs. It’s  _ not _ that funny, but it’s as though now that his body has remembered the mechanics of a laugh it wants its money’s worth. “I th-thought it w-would be something more— more serious.” 

“It’s plenty serious, Martin!” Jon attempts to scold him, but comes off sounding entirely petulant. It’s hardly a tone Jon has ever taken around him, let alone  _ with  _ him, and Martin is at a loss wondering how many of Jon’s carefully built walls are left standing. “I-I… it’s easy to worry about you, given the situation.” 

Worry. To give way to anxiety or unease. Why is it so much easier for him to remember the definition than the way it feels? Though, he supposes that there wasn’t a whole lot of worrying to be done about him, even before all of this. It’s the burden of that thought that makes his knees weak under Jon’s words— he looks for the tells of a lie, desperate to find something to force him to keep Jon at a distance. He doesn’t even know why, anymore; it’s just an instinct, at this point. 

And yet, he finds nothing in Jon to discredit what he said. 

Martin expects to feel the sinking dread he is used to but is left nearly breathless as the feeling he is met with instead is very warm and soft, reaching out from the depths of his chest and curling around everything it can get its hands on. He has been on the brink of freezing to death since the first time he visited Jon in his hospital— he feels like he’s being burned alive, and it feels very nice. 

“I—” Martin’s breath catches and he feels his face go red at the blunder. “I’d… I wouldn’t say no to something to eat.” Hunger hadn’t been on his list of priorities while lost in the Lonely, and the thought of actual food serves as a fine reminder that he hasn’t eaten since… well, it’s hard to say for certain, with the way time moves differently outside of populated existence. “Do you have a preference?” 

It’s a stupid question. Martin knows it the moment the words leave his mouth and he can  _ feel _ Jon curl in on himself even though he doesn’t move. He has watched Jon closely enough to know that Chinese takeaway won’t do anything to sate what lurks beneath the surface. Even still, somehow Martin holds no contempt for what Jon has become.

Okay, maybe some contempt. But with the things Martin has been all too willing to sacrifice, he has a hard time bringing himself to point fingers. 

“I’m… fine with whatever you want,” Jon answers, his voice unsteady despite his best efforts. 

Martin doesn’t comment, offering a wary smile instead. “Let’s just grab something from the deli by mine… nice and easy, yeah?” 

“Sure,” Jon agrees easily. 

Martin squeezes his hand gently, the same quiet reassurance that Jon had offered him now returned. The action seems to surprise Jon slightly, but after a moment his features soften finally, and he smiles. 

The walk to Martin’s flat is quiet, for the most part. Martin’s ability to make small talk has grown more rusty than he’d like to admit, and Jon… well Jon never could make small talk in the first place. But the quiet is fine— it’s nothing like the miserable hush of the archives over the last months, or the oppressive silence of the Lonely. Even if he is not speaking, Jon is right beside him and still hasn’t let go of his hand. 

Martin’s flat isn’t much to ring home about. Even since moving flats after the whole…  _ worms _ thing, Martin’s small box of a suite has hardly felt much like ‘home.’ There was always either too much danger to go home, or too much work, or too much spooky extracurriculars. At the very least, it means his flat is clean. 

Hovering near his ratty old couch holding the bag from the deli in hand, Martin feels a nostalgic wave of listlessness wash over him. Jon is still near the door, struggling out of his shoes despite Martin telling him he doesn’t need to take them off. 

“I’ll ma—” 

“Let me put a pot of tea on, Martin.” He stares at Jon like he’s trying to solve a riddle, mouth drawing into a small frown as he turns the man in front of him over in his brain. “I certainly owe you a cup, so just have a seat.” 

“R-Right…” Martin wants to make a fuss, wants to opportunity to do something with his hands, but picking a fight with Jon over who gets to watch the kettle boil seems like such a mundane thing that it borders on the absurd. So instead, he moves out of Jon’s way and takes a seat on the couch and waits until Jon has disappeared behind the thin wall separating the sitting room from the kitchen to let out a shaky sigh. 

He picks at the paper wrapping his sandwich. Jon doesn’t owe him a thing, how could he? 

The sandwich is good and the roast beef is cooked incredibly well, but the taste falls flat on his tongue. Is this why he’s been eating less? He follows each bite with another, each taken with the careful deliberation of a ritual despite being a fairly standard human thing to do. 

“Martin—” he nearly drops the remainder of his sandwich as he whips his head to find Jon peeking out of the kitchen. “Sorry, I don’t mean to startle you, I just…” Jon picks at a stray piece of thread on his sweater, and the way his hands tremble ever so slightly loses Martin somewhat. “I, um— I don’t know how you take your tea.” 

To say that doesn’t hurt is a lie Martin is unwilling to tell, though he does try and keep in perspective that he has never given Jon the opportunity to learn. All the time spent vying for his attention had been at an arm’s length, it’s only just showing now. 

“Milk and three sugars, please.” He can’t help but smile at the way Jon crinkles his nose at Martin’s taste, and whatever retort sat on Jon’s tongue seems to get lost as he stares for a moment before disappearing back into the kitchen. 

It’s alien to have Jon wait on him, but at this point change can only be a good thing— especially so far removed from the trappings of the institute. It dawns on him that Jon is making him tea and this somehow hasn’t upset the balance of the world badly enough to cause the end of the world, so it must be a good thing; or at the very least, a fine thing. 

He finishes his sandwich and then is stopped by the idea that he should have waited for Jon, that he’s been terribly rude for not waiting— and then he remembers that eating isn’t really a big Jon thing anymore, and maybe he’ll feel better if he doesn’t feel pressured into it by social contract. They should talk about this sometime, really, if Martin can find a way to bring it up. 

Jon finally resurfaces with two cups of tea, setting both down on the coffee table before joining Martin on the couch with a polite distance between the two of them. When Jon says nothing Martin takes his cup from the table and blows on it, making the steam dance at the behest of his lips. He feels the expectant weight of Jon’s stare on the side of his face as he takes a cautious sip, more for the potential of being burned than anything else. 

“Well?” Jon asks. 

“It’s good,” Martin assures him. It’s not a lie, it is good, especially considering it’s such a far stray from Jon’s usual. Martin turns to see Jon smile slightly at himself, looking pleased. He doesn’t really get it; it’s just tea. 

“I’m glad.” Jon turns his focus away from Martin as though they’re playing a game of tag with their eyes, staring down at his own cup of tea. 

“Right,” Martin says if for no other reason than a desperate bid to keep the conversation going, to hear more from Jon. Martin already knew he missed him— it’s just that in his isolation he hadn’t realized just how much. 

Jon doesn’t say anything else so Martin again returns his attention to his mug, tracing the rim with his index finger. He can feel Jon’s eyes back on his face, the skin tingling where he searches for the answer to a question that would likely be answered much faster if he’d just ask— or maybe not. Martin’s not exactly a closed book. 

“Martin?” 

“Yes, Jon?” Martin sighs, putting his tea down again before turning to look at Jon. This time Jon’s gaze does not disappear, though he has a feeling it comes with great discomfort. 

Jon shifts in his seat. He looks like he’s struggling with whatever idea it is that’s bouncing around in that big brain of his, maybe even more so than usual. It’s not something Martin isn’t used to, Jon getting lost in his own head, though this time it seems more like nerves than anything else— but that’s stupid, because it’s Jon. Martin isn’t sure he’s capable of feeling nervous. 

“You said you… loved me,” Jon says finally, and Martin’s breath gets caught on the lump in his throat so abruptly that he almost chokes. 

He doesn’t want to do this. 

“Jon, don’t—” No, he doesn’t want to do this at all, not just as he’s starting to feel like he can catch his breath for the first time in months. It’s as though the surface of the water is right there, and yet there’s always something there to drag him back down just as he’s about to breach. 

He can’t handle what comes next. Jon is bad with words at the best of times, but even if he were the most beautiful writer in the world he could never find a way to let Martin down easily enough to spare what’s left of his heart.

“Martin, no.” Jon’s voice is an attempt at firm marred by a falter at the end of Martin’s name that is impossible to miss, and it makes his chest hurt. “Just… let me speak. Please.” 

Jon waits. Despite the urge to disappear crawling up his back, Martin resigns himself to his fate as he bites his bottom lip and gestures to Jon to continue. 

“I… am not good at this sort of thing, so I hope you’ll forgive me in advance.” Martin winces. Jon sounds so unsure of himself, so utterly out of his element that he truly feels awful for even putting him through this. It’s a daft thought, feeling bad for putting Jon in the position of breaking his heart, but it’s far too late to resent the way his brain has ended up hardwired. 

“I…” Jon sighs, soft and shaky, and Martin finally worries his lip enough that he tastes the faintest amount of blood on his tongue. “I feel the same, Martin.” 

“Yeah, sure… that’s—” Martin pinches the bridge of his nose. “That’s fine, Jon. I get it.” 

“I-I’m sorry, I don’t quite follow—”

The pieces click together out of sync, Jon’s words finally digestible through the stubborn anxiety at the forefront of Martin’s brain. 

Oh.

“W-Wait,  _ wait _ .” That’s not possible. “S-Sorry, you what?” 

“I… I fancy you?” Jon’s gaze is fixed firmly in his lap where he is folding and unfolding his hands, and his cheeks are colored with the faintest hint of rose— Martin has never seen him flushed. “No, I— I suppose that’s not… adequate?” Jon manages to make himself look up again, meeting Martin’s wide eyes and forcing himself to keep his gaze there. “Martin, I… I do… love you. As well.” 

Did he die in the Lonely? Is that what happened? Had he been consumed by Peter Lukas’ beast, and his soul sent to Heaven? Actually, that’s quite unrealistic— even if he did believe something like that is possible, he’s pretty sure you’re no longer allowed in once you’ve gotten up close and personal with awful nightmare entities. 

So this is real, then?

“...Yes? Yes it is,” Jon answers, and Martin’s cheeks burn at the realization that he’d spoken the last part aloud. Jon’s eyes are filled with… well he doesn’t want to make assumptions, but he thinks it’s fair to say it’s something akin to adoration seeing as Jon  _ has _ just confessed to him. 

Jon confessed to him. Jon  _ literally _ just said—

“You love me?” Martin parrots as his brain goes around the same circular train of thought yet again. 

“Y-Yes.” Jon sounds a bit more confident in his answer this time, but no less flustered than before. Oh. That’s why he’d seemed so out of his depth— it makes a lot more sense, actually. Jon’s never had much of a problem being a dick. 

“Oh. Right.” Very intelligent, Martin. 

Jon shifts again in his seat looking more weathered with each second that goes by, and only then does Martin realize that he’s waiting for a confirmation that it’s still mutual. Past tense— Martin had used the past tense. “O-Oh, God, um— Jon, I—” he reaches out and very clumsily grabs one of Jon’s hands with both of his own, and squeezes. He’s not sure if he’s trying to reassure Jon, or ground himself. Likely both. “I-I love you too!”

His voice is raised more than necessary, but it’s easy to get caught up in a moment like this. One of Jon’s eyebrows raises at the volume, but the expression doesn’t last long as it is swept away by the most stunning smile that Martin has ever seen. He’s never seen Jon smile this wide, corners of his mouth pulling up to a pair of dimples that Martin is only just now discovering. 

It’s breathtaking, and his initial response is to trace every curve of Jon’s face and commit it to memory for the moment he inevitably loses him— but he stops himself. It’s more than enough just to admire the beautiful man in front of him for now. 

Jon will still be here tomorrow, and Martin can have as many opportunities to make him smile like that as he likes. 

**Author's Note:**

> find me on twt @neosanctuaire. yell at me there.


End file.
